I truly, honestly hate to admit this, but I left Cuba with a sense of relief. I had let the hustling get to me, and I knew it. The worst part? I also knew I had missed out on creating a connection with probably the most passionate people I had travelled among to date. And I loath myself for it.
The end of the ski season is looming nearer, and I spent the past week cramming in hours on the slopes with predictions of, ‘This is probably the last good day of skiing/boarding left!’ repeated from one day to the next.
I am a tidy person, perhaps this is why an illustration style with black ink lines containing the colour comes more naturally to my hand. But it is also a constricting genre, both practically and professionally. I struggle to call myself a Painter – with a capital P – because of these lines.
Visiting Italian cities is like walking through an open air museum. The only limitation is that with my barely mediocre art history knowledge I was not always sure of the significance of what I was looking at. In hindsight, I think this may have actually worked in my favour.
I like visiting old ruins, particularly the ones where nature has been allowed to creep back in, softening the edges. The park-like settings are soothing and a source of inspiration as I let my mind wander and fill in the blanks.
